


blue moon

by jackrabbits



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: M/M, ROMANCE LOVE TENDERNESS GAY RIGHTS ETC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackrabbits/pseuds/jackrabbits
Summary: When the song ends--Finally,Theo thinks-- they pause, looking at each other. Theo brings his hand up to Boris's face, carefully brushing aside a strand of hair. Boris catches his hand before he can take it away, holding it up against his cheek."Theo," He says, rough and quiet. He looks broken, like they're in a bad thriller and Theo just ripped his heart out of his chest, glassy eyes, last words, bleeding out on the kitchen floor. Theo just stares at him. Boris stares back.





	blue moon

"My mom used to love this song."

"Hm?" Boris turns to look at him from the floor, head resting on the edge of the couch, greasy black hair flopping back to reveal his forehead, C-shaped cut from running in front of the saucer swing at their playground, pink and new _._

"My mom. She used to listen to it when she was cooking." The radio hums quietly in the background. (Theo broke his record player last week. Boris keeps telling him he'll steal him a new one, but how the hell do you steal a record player without anyone noticing? It's a fucking record player. They're huge.)

"Ah," Boris replies, uncharacteristically quiet. The alcohol, probably.

"Billie Holiday, Yah? 1940s," He scratches his nose. Theo raises an eyebrow.

"Or 1950s. Doesn't matter. Don't look at me like that, Potter! Is good song. Your mother, she had good taste. Unlike you." Theo rolls his eyes.

"Ass."

"It's the truth! Which one of us tried to play Imagine Dragons, huh? Imagine Dragons, pfft--" He makes a gesture with his hands, the mug in his hands sloshing ominously with an ungodly mixture of vodka and sprite.

"-- What kind of name is that! Imagine Dragons, I don't need help to imagine dragons, I can do that fine on my own without help from shitty rock band!"

Theo groans and covers his eyes with a hand, and tries not to think about the fact that he hasn’t had anything to eat in a day and a half besides a package of four dry crackers and a piece of smoked salmon that might have been expired. The only thing in the fridge is a bottle of Canada Dry and a head of lettuce.

When he opens his eyes, Boris has moved from his spot against the edge of the couch and is standing in front of him, one hand out expectantly.

"Boris--"

"What, do I have to bow, too? Come on, Potter, live a little!" He wiggles his fingers. Theo groans again.

"I hate you." But he grabs his hand anyways, and Boris pulls him to the empty space between the coffee table and the gigantic flat screen TV, which only has two channels this far out into the desert, news and holiday movie re-runs, even in the middle of summer.

"Like this, see?" Boris puts his hand on Theo's waist, keeping their other hands clasped together. Theo puts his other hand on Boris's shoulder as he's instructed. Suddenly, he feels breathless, that familiar old lurch in his stomach, sweaty palms. He coughs into Boris's shoulder.

"Where'd you learn to dance, anyways?" he asks. They're swaying now, gently, and the song is still playing in the background.

"Oh, you know, old Polish Babcias, mostly." Theo tries to imagine that, little Boris, dancing with some faceless old granny, at a wedding maybe, or in someone's home, late at night, cookies baking in the oven, rocking chair in the yellow porch light, little cups and saucers with matching daisy print. It's impossible. Boris, to Theo, has always been this. Lanky and awkward, black hair that looks dyed even if Boris swears it's not, ratty old t-shirt with the logo of an obscure Russian death-punk-metal band on it, dark circles under his eyes making him look perpetually hungover. Which he is. Which they both are, really.

 _Blue moon_ , Billie Holiday says _, You knew just what I was there for, You heard me saying a prayer for, Someone I really could care for,_ she says.

They dance for a little while longer, Boris humming along half heartedly, Theo trying to keep his breathing regulated.

When the song ends-- _Finally_ , Theo thinks-- they pause, looking at each other. Theo brings his hand up to Boris's face, carefully brushing aside a strand of hair. Boris catches his hand before he can take it away, holding it up against his cheek.

"Theo," He says, rough and quiet. He looks broken, like they're in a bad thriller and Theo just ripped his heart out of his chest, glassy eyes, last words, bleeding out on the kitchen floor. Theo just stares at him. Boris stares back.

All of a sudden, Theo is painfully aware of how close they are. Hand against hand against shoulder against hip, and Boris’s face, only a few inches away, still looking at him like he just killed a puppy or conned a blind old woman out of her last fifty cents. He wants to close his eyes so, so badly, but he won’t. He can’t. He’s in a trance and the radio is blaring ads, _Best Couches In Los Vegas, Only $399.99!_ The world is spinning, even though they’ve stopped dancing, even though they’re both standing very, very still.

"Boris--"

The front door opens. Xandra's ugly laugh, loud and grotesque, breaks the spell. Boris lets go of Theo's hand and they both scramble to hide beer cans under the couch, then run to their positions; Theo on one end of the couch, Boris on the other. Theo snatches the remote and turns on the TV. It's the rerun channel, and It's a Wonderful Life is on, again, for the fourth time this week.

"-- Hey, that's a pretty good idea," Jimmy Stewart says from the TV, wearing the ugliest t-shirt Theo’s ever seen.

"I'll give you the moon, Mary." He continues. Theo remembers the shirt he saw Xandra wearing last week, a frilly, bright pink and lime green chevron monstrosity-- he and Boris made fun of it for three days straight. Maybe whatever Jimmy Stewart’s wearing is the second ugliest t-shirt he’s ever seen.

"I'll take it. Then what?" Mary replies. Theo closes his eyes, and listens to his dad and Xandra talk about nothing in particular. He can feel Boris's eyes on him, staring. He does not look back.

\--

Hobie insists that they go out on Pippa's last day in New York. Theo wants to refuse, really, Pippa had spent the whole visit talking about her new fiancée, showing off the ring, (A little, elegant thing. simple gold band and small jewels. Pippa had gushed about how the diamond was fake, or synthetic or something-- lab grown. Sustainable. _Cheap_ , Theo translates in his head) and telling everyone who would listen about Elliot, or Everett, or whatever the hell his name is. But-- well, it's Pippa. And Hobie even said that Pippa could choose the restaurant, so maybe they’ll be able to eat somewhere that isn’t on the verge of bankruptcy. 

The place Pippa chooses is nice, simple. Candles on the table, good food, even some live entertainment. And it’s all going well, Theo has finally gotten Pippa to talk about something that isn’t Everett, and Theo thinks maybe, just maybe, it’ll be a nice evening. But just as they start to talk about Hobie’s most recent bidding war, the music changes.

The woman at the piano starts singing, _Blue moon_ , _You saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart--_

Theo stands up too fast, almost knocking over his chair in the process, napkin fluttering out of his lap, vision blurring for half a second. Hobie and Pippa both look up in surprise, Pippa with her fork raised halfway up to her lips, mouth open. It’s such an absurd pose that Theo would laugh, if he didn’t feel like he was going to throw up.

“Sorry. Bathroom.” Is all he manages to get out before he half-runs half-walks out the front door.

He ends up in the allyway besides the restaurant, resting against the cool brick wall. The kitchen door is slightly open, and yellow light leaks out into the cold blue air. He can still hear the piano. With shaky hands, he pulls out a pack of smokes and a lighter. Putting one in his mouth and tries to light it, swearing when the wind refuses to let the flame stay lit for more than a few seconds. When he finally lights the cigarette, Theo leans his head against the wall, letting out a long, quivering breath, smoke coiling above him.

This time last year, Theo had gotten the worst fever of his life. Two weeks in bed, throwing up his guts, shivering and overheating at the same time, weaving in and out of consciousness as he slept. On the worst night, five days in, he woke up to Boris standing over him.

He was wearing that old t-shirt of Theo’s, the one he accidentally spilt pasta sauce all over, the third time they got drunk together. It was grey and ragged and so was Boris, he looked older than Theo had ever seen him, twenty-something, with his hair curlier than Theo remembered, but it was Boris-- Theo would know him anywhere.

“I’ll take care of you.” Hallucination-Boris had said, because this Boris, Theo knew, was not real. Real-Boris was long gone and never coming back.

“It’s rotten work.” Fever-Theo replied, feeling his eyes well up with tears. Hallucination-Boris put his hand on his cheek just like he did seven years ago, like they were both fifteen again, young and drunk and lost.

“Not to me. Not if it’s you.” Hallucination-Boris replied.

He had read that, somewhere. Where? He couldn’t remember, so he leaned over the side of his bed and threw up in a small plastic bucket that used to hold dog food. When he looked back up, Boris was gone. He sighed, rolled over, and fell back to sleep.

\--

“How is your redhead, Potter?” They’re lying opposite each other on Boris’s bed, Theo’s head by Boris’s feet and vice versa. They’re both drunk, Theo more so than Boris, and everything feels warm and sweet sepia, like that old photograph of Theo’s grandma as a little girl, back on a reserve that Theo has never known the name of. The one his mom hung up in the entryway to their apartment, after his dad left for good. 

“Fuck, Boris, I have no idea,” Boris snorts when he says that, laughing loose because of the alcohol.

“I haven’t talked to her in what, four months? Five? Last time I saw her was at Hobie’s birthday party, and then the only time we spoke more than one word to each other was when we were trying to bake Hobie a cake.”

“The cake. Tasted like shit, yes?” Boris says, knowingly.

“It was so bad we ended up going to Dairy Queen and buying one of those ice cream cakes with a toy car on top.” Boris cackles at that, taking a swig from the bottle of expensive vodka lying on the floor (stolen, for, as Boris had said as they stood around in the Belgian version of Safeway, "Old times sake, Potter!").

“Judy always said, _Boris, no, you cannot cook angry! It tastes like dog shit every time!_ ” He puts on a high, affected accent when he imitates her, but his own accent mangles it into something unrecognizable.

“She was right, though. Every time I try to cook for Astrid, tastes like Popchyk threw up in it.” He says, hoisting himself up to pass the vodka to Theo, then flopping back down, stretching out his arms.

“She really makes you that miserable?” Theo says, shuddering slightly as the liquor goes down. Boris raises his head slightly to look at Theo as he hands it back.

“Well no, maybe, not at first. But now, yes. We are not, how do you say it here, comparable.”

“Compatible?” Theo asks— Boris tends to lose his grip on the English language when he gets drunk. Boris snaps his fingers at Theo.

“Yes! Like the star signs, yah? Your father would know.”

“But he’s dead.” Theo points out, matter of fact, feeling strangely removed from the fact.

“This is true! Very very sad. Squished like how my father would swat flies.” Theo has a vision of Boris’s dad chasing a tiny version of his dad, one of those specially made fly swatters with the twisted wire handle in hand, sputtering untranslatable Russian swears after him.

Theo makes a small noise in agreement, ignoring the pit in his stomach. Boris starts to hum in the silence, an old melody that Theo recognizes but can’t place.

Silently, Boris gets up and shuffles through the records he has piled up in the corner of the room, making small tsk-ing noises until he finds the one he’s looking for. He puts it on the player, dropping the needle randomly halfway through, and it starts to play that familiar old piano riff, telltale crackling sound indicating it’s an old recording. Theo slips his hands under his glasses to rub his eyes, suddenly feeling very world weary and tired. He wants to cry.

“Just like old days, no?” Boris says.

 _And then they suddenly appeared before me, the only one my arms will ever hold_ , Billie Hoilday says.

Theo keeps his eyes firmly shut, fingers clenched so hard on the bridge of his nose that they turn deathly white. He can feel Boris flop down beside him. Billie Holiday continues to hum in the background _. This feels like someone’s trying to pull all my teeth out with a pair of dull scissors,_ he thinks. _I’m not drunk enough for this,_ he thinks.

“Theo.” Boris says, quietly, looking up at the crack in the ceiling.

“What.” Theo says through gritted teeth.

“Do you love her? Your redhead?”

Theo thinks about this for a very long time. He loves Pippa, surely, the way she smiles, the permanent bump in her nose from breaking it in the explosion, how her hair looks after a shower, the way she makes her tea. He’s known Pippa so long and… and what? Ten years and nothing to show for it, expect for a copy of The Wizard of Oz and awkward cake decorating sessions. 

The seventh time he’d seen her after she’d left for her boarding school, she sat at the dusty old piano in the corner of Hobart & Blackwell, playing variations on chopsticks for an hour and a half. And as Theo watched her, the way she ghosted her finger for a millisecond before she pressed down on a key, carefully, making a sharp, clear noise, all he could think of was Boris: Boris in Theo’s pyjamas, walking Popper down the street. Boris, diving into the backyard pool, the way his hair would dry out, a mixture of hot sun and chlorine freezing his curls in place and making them brittle. Boris, reading poetry on Theo’s bed he stole from the school library, that one poem that he had read once that Theo could never find again, _Richard it’s Christmas Eve again / and old ghosts come back home_ , is how it started but now Theo will never remember how it ends. Boris holding his hand as they slow danced late at night.

“I don’t know, Boris. I think I used to, once,” He pauses again as the record stops abruptly.

“It’s just-- Shit. How do you know if you love someone? How do I know if I’ve stopped?” He opens his eyes and turns to look at Boris.

Boris is staring at him, and there’s that look again, the one he saw all those years ago in Vegas. Like Theo bombed a hospital or stole a baby’s lollipop. Bleeding out on the kitchen floor. They’re too close together, so close that he can feel the heat radiating from Boris’s skin. He can hear Boris take a shaky breath. And for a moment, he really thinks that Boris is going to kiss him. He has a thousand ways to say no, to let him down gently, excuses to leave before one of them unravels this thing that’s hung in the air ever since they found each other. Eight years gone, everything’s changed and they’re both still the same.

But before Theo can do anything rash, Boris rolls over and pulls on the little beaded rope that turns of his lamp, plunging them both into darkness.

“Goodnight, Potter.” He says, sounding horribly sad.

“Goodnight.” Theo says, and fumbles to take off his glasses in the dark.

After who knows how long, an hour? Thirty minutes? Five? Theo rolls over to ask Boris about handing him the last of that vodka. But he’s still thinking about Pippa, and how sad Boris looked just then, and how Boris used to look at him, in Vegas, when he thought Theo was still asleep. So instead, what comes out of his mouth is:

“Why did you kiss me?”

Boris is silent for so long that Theo starts to think that he actually did fall asleep, that he’s talking to the mosquito buzzing outside the window.

“I do not think you would like the truth, Potter.” Boris says, quietly, throat scraping in that way that only happens when you talk just above a whisper.

“Tell me anyway.” Boris sighs, when he hears that, and shifts to face Theo again. This time, it feels like there’s a chasm between them, their very own Grand Canyon. Theo wants to reach out, to see if he can still reach the boy beside him, despite all that. Despite the fog.

“Well the truth if you really want to know, the truth is that we had so many first kisses.” Theo opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what, something, anything, but Boris barrels on, talking fast and uneven.

“And you never remembered! You would wake up with hickey, all down your neck like, yah” – Pause to gesture down his neck in the dark-- “Wearing that stupid fucking Never Summer shirt and you would never remember! And if I am already telling the truth, made me go a little crazy, there I was on earth with everyone else except you, you up on moon like in the David Bowie song? Major Tom? ‘ _And I’m floating in a most peculiar way, and the stars look very different today’_?” He stops for a deep breath. Theo stays quiet.

“Theo,” Boris says.

“I know,” Theo answers. And then he kisses him.

After a few moments, Boris backs away and somehow manages to look even more distraught than before.

“I never did blow with KT Bearman-- well I did smoke some weed with her like two months after you left but that doesn't count-- I sat at home listening to that shitty Billie Holliday track. Waiting on you to come back.” Boris says.

“I know.” Theo says, and kisses him again.

\--

I forget the reason, but I loved you once,  
remember?

Maybe in this season, drunk  
and sentimental, I’m willing to admit  
a part of me, crazed and kamikaze,  
ripe for anarchy, loves still.

Sandra Cisneros, _One Last Poem For Richard_

**Author's Note:**

> Edited 19/09/30 for some basic grammar/sentence reorganization that was bugging me
> 
> I started this bad boy because I couldn't stop thinking about how neither Theo nor Boris address their kiss when they meet up again to get back the goldfinch and it kinda spiraled from there. I'm not a writer and I don't write on a regular basis so like... sorry if this horrible!
> 
> Inspired by this [song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntDnwBiORu8) The “it’s rotten work” exchange is from Anne Carson’s translation of Orestes’s Euripides. “Richard it’s Christmas Eve” is from One Last Poem for Richard by Sandra Cisneros. The song Boris quotes is Space Age by David Bowie. Listen to the playlist I made for this fic [here!](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0tVfIynoswN04zuQfVRntI?si=xzfVFguNSMKdOmh9FYiwjQ)
> 
> find me on tumblr @familiarplace


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